


If I Show You My Hands, Will You Carry the Beast?

by anamatics



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: And Now For Something Completely Different, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 16:45:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1655453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamatics/pseuds/anamatics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I am not a rebound for Holmes.”  A pause, Watson’s eyes are growing ever-larger.  She wants to make this clear before they go any further.  She will not play this role, no matter how much Watson wants it out of her. “Either of them.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Show You My Hands, Will You Carry the Beast?

She figured that this would happen at some point.  They are two people in one of the largest cities in the world, so, naturally, it happens sooner, rather than later.  And it is certainly not on purpose.

The meeting she was coming from had ended badly, as they sometimes do.  Jamie plans for them ending poorly and enjoys being pleasantly surprised when things go smoothly; such is the nature of this business.  Today, however, she'd had to resort to her third of seven contingency plans to avoid getting shot and possibly having a few fingers removed by a particularly angry triad enforcer who didn't appreciate the photographs Jamie had of him with his boss' rival's daughter.

She sits her car, hands shaking and her head down between her knees, trying lower her heart rate and slow her breathing.  The moment before her second lookout (the one she hadn't let them catch and kill) had shot the man, with her fingers crushed in his meaty hand, had shaken her far more deeply than Jamie had been willing to admit at the time.  She stares at her hands against the grey interior of the car's floor mats and sighs, there is no point in wallowing in it.  She straightens, but her hands are still shaking.  She needs a drink.

Leaning forward, Jamie taps on the partition and it lowers slowly.  She gives her driver an address, a place she knows she will not be recognized, and sits back, watching as the black tinted glass slides into place.

Some twenty minutes later she's staring at a glass of good wine and not wanting it at all, sitting at the bar, her phone turned over in her lap.  Jamie has no patience for threats, and she knows that her killing her potential blackmail-e will hold no bearing on her relations with the rest of the organization he was doing such a piss-poor job of representing, but it is still news that she has to break herself.

Jamie sips the wine slowly, turning ideas of an approach over and over in her head.  There are so many possibilities, each better than the last.  Eventually the most direct option wins out, and she takes her wine out onto the small outdoor patio at the back of the bar and dials the number from memory.  He knows who it is, she's spoken to him many times before, and he picks up immediately.

"Xiao Li is dead," she says, feeling wine warm and probably a little bit too loose for such a conversation.  She considers her next statement carefully before speaking.  "He compromised your enterprise and I removed him before he could remove me."

"Yes," Sheng's former boss answers at length, "But you are a parasite whereas he was a good soldier.  I'm sure he had a reason."

"His reason was his own, I'm sure," Jamie replies.  The wine is gone now, and the glass sits before her empty. Her hands are steady. "I do not offer to make amends, as he threatened my life, you see."

"One cannot expect any less."  He sighs into the phone, and Jamie knows he's thinking of what he can ask in return for retribution for what she's done.  "Two months, twenty percent lower."

"One month at fifteen."  She wasn't about to lose that much money for a lowly foot soldier.

"Two at ten."

"Done."  He hangs up and Jamie pulls the phone from her ear, keying in a passcode and sending him the pictures - so that he knows why, even if he did not ask.  She watches the message vanish from her screen and turns to return her wineglass to the bar.

Inside it is warm and dark, and Jamie wants to linger.  The space is tinted red, probably for an accent, and she's foolishly ordered a second glass of wine to replace her first.  It is then, out of the corner of her eye that she catches sight of her.  She's teetering in too-high heels, a nice dress and cardigan, leaning against a high table.  She's talking to some singularly dull-looking man in a jacket that's a size too big and who is clearly cheating on his wife.  She can see the outline of his wedding ring in his pocket from where she sits.

There is a moment when Jamie debates simply walking away.  Watson doesn't know that they've released her and that she's leveraged half her organization's best-kept secrets for that freedom.  Watson doesn't know many things, but it is the anxious, worried look that drifts across Watson's face when she, too, notices the indent on the man's ring finger and makes the connection that makes Jamie want to stay.

Joan Watson wastes no time, though, and Jamie's almost denied the show of Watson throwing her drink in the guy's face when she glances down at her phone to read a text.  He splutters and calls her all number of rude names that make Jamie see red.  He's up in her face, dripping wine all over his shoes and Watson merely shakes her head and says she won't play his fantasy.

A bouncer appears soon after and the show grows boring again.  Jamie turns to her wine and waits, because it is inevitable.  Watson pushes her way to the bar and its then, Jamie's fingers splayed out over the rim of her wineglass, that Watson realizes she's had an audience.

"Oh god," she groans.  She pauses, glances down at bar and her hands.  They're shaking, she was frightened by that man and Jamie wants to skin him alive.  "You aren't following me, are you?"

"Happy coincidence, I assure you." A sip of wine, a slightly more hazy expression than Jamie was feeling. She's caught the thread of an idea and she wants to run it through to its final resting place. "Your choice of company leaves something to be desired, Watson."

"He was married," Watson grumbles.  The bartender slides over, glancing over Watson with an apprising look and smiling shyly before getting her order.  Jamie's eyebrows shoot up; because the woman is clearly younger , very tattooed, and is well, female.  She'd never considered that, not with Watson, she'd always just assumed a connection to Sherlock.

"And the bartender is going to slip you her number," Jamie picks up her drink, wondering if Watson will buy a slightly saucy look over her wine glass and a lewd wink - no the wink is too much, the look, however, and a raised eyebrow, conveys her meaning and intent perfectly.  Jamie wants Watson to think she's a little more drunk than she feels, for what purpose she isn't sure.  "All's well that ends well, blah blah blah."

Watson turns to her, eyes narrowed. "How many of those have you had?"

A shrug.  "A few." 

"What did you have to give up to get them to let out go?"  The bartender slips Watson her number on a cocktail napkin as she sets down a vodka cranberry.  Watson stares at it for a moment before sighing and tucking it into her cardigan pocket.

"More than I would have liked."  Taking another sip of wine, Jamie raises her eyebrow.  "I'm surprised yours wasn't the first number they called upon my release."  She makes a dismissive gesture.  "I'm terribly vengeful, you know?"

Watson shakes her head and reaches for her drink.  "Are you going to kill me?"

Jamie hates herself for having to affect it, but she widens her eyes and puts on a horrified expression.  "I could never!" she says, all splayed out fingers shaking in the negative.  She's supposed to be drunk.  "Besides, there are more important things to be done."

"Ah yes, murder as the all-important pass time."

"Well, someone has to do it."

"People die every day, you shouldn't go around playing god," Watson says.  She picks at some lint on her cardigan's sleeve, cheeks puffed out in thought. 

"It would be boring to be god," Jamie replies.  She leans forward, elbows on her knees and fingers reaching out to touch the soft fabric of Watson's cardigan. She doesn't pull away.  "Are you going to call the bartender, Joan Watson?"

"Why do you care?"

"Perhaps, if you do, I'll slip you my number too," Jamie decides that the wink is more appropriate here, because doing so has Watson's cheeks a very nice shade of pink as she scoots back fully into her seat.  "I guarantee that I'd be a better lay."

"For real, how many of those have you had?" She sounds incredulous, which irritates Jamie, because there's nothing wrong with drinking in a bar, and yes, it's all a show, but it's not that much of a show and Jamie is having would could be construed in some circles as a very bad day.

Jamie is surprised by her want to tell Watson, to lean in and whisper that she doesn’t like being threatened, that the idea of having fingers removed sounds wonderful if she's the one doing the removing, but horrible if they're her own.  No one touches her, and Xiao Li had put his hands on her.  She feels violated, probably as violated as Watson felt with her married date up in her face and calling her a bitch for seeing through his lie.  There is no mercy for women, and Jamie despises that even when she too falls into the patterns of these men.

She does so hate being predictable.

"Enough to not leave." She smiles prettily, folding her hand, bruised and aching one on top.  The wine is numbing the pain, but she can see the bruise already.  "I'd considered it, you know, walking out of here and not witnessing your spectacular display of temper." She smiles then, self-deprecating and almost shy.  The sort of girlish smile that she hates on other women but finds to be to her advantage most days. "I'm glad I stayed, but really Watson, you never know who you might be insulting. I'd be more careful."

Watson downs half of her drink, grimacing when she sets it down on the bar once more.  "I've insulted you plenty of times."

Jamie wobbles and it probably looks intentional from where Watson is sitting, and her eyes are still a little hazy.  She inclines her head, point Watson. She'll concede that.  "But as I have considerably less testosterone coursing through my veins, I am far less likely to hurt you than the average man."

"Because you're anything but average."

"Quite so.  Also I am not a man."

"Are you flirting with me?" Watson is looking at her with narrowed eyes and Jamie bats her eyelashes, just a little bit, because it's fun to do this and Watson is getting very attractively flushed and Jamie catches herself wondering how else she can create that intriguing color on her cheeks.  Would fear do it? Or sex - innuendo?  Perhaps both?  "Because you're drunk and I don't think you should be flirting with me."

"Why ever not?" Looking Watson up and down, Jamie shrugs. "You are rather good looking."

"I'm cutting you off."

"You can't, it's my credit card."

"Probably stolen."

"Do you truly think so little of me?"  Jamie pouts. She reaches for her purse, hooked over the back of her chair, and slings it over her shoulder. A part of her, the part that is coldly and ruthlessly logical, says that this could end right here, with this over dramatic, put-upon gesture.  She does know what she wants from this, to forget for a little while, to erase the feeling of Xiao Li's hands on her with a more pleasant memory.  To have some semblance of revenge in the process, to see Joan Watson at her most vulnerable, it is an added bonus, but it comes at the price of a gamble she must take.  She thinks she knows what Watson will do, but she's irritatingly hard to read at the best of times, and this is truly not one of those times. "I shall leave you to your pierced and tattooed barkeep, then, Watson.  Have a good night."

She's half-way across the bar before Watson catches her arm, and Jamie feels the wine more acutely than she'd care to admit in that moment.  She wants to reach for her gun, to press the muzzle against Watson's neck and tell her to never touch her again.  No one touches her. No one.

Backed into a corner by her own playacting though, all she can do is smile sweetly and step in far too close, fingers tight on Watson's upper arm.  She can feel Watson's breath on her cheeks and she smells like safety.  Jamie will blame it on the wine later, but she wants to stay there, despite Watson's hand on her forearm.

"Don't leave," Watson is insistent.  "You're obviously in no condition to drive."

Jamie stares balefully at her. "Watson, who says I drive anywhere?"

It earns her an eye roll, because one drink isn't enough to make Watson stupid.  Jamie isn't even sure that ten drinks are.  "Well, you're obviously upset about something, you're certainly not the type of person to get drunk in a bar without a reason."

And Jamie leans in even closer, lips brushing barely against the soft, freckled skin of Watson's cheek.  She wobbles, teetering on put on unsteady feet.  "Perhaps I merely wanted to see you."

"You said it was a happy coincidence."

"So it was," Jamie concedes.  She looks down at her feet and then up to Watson's expectant eyes.  "I have had a trying day.  Perhaps I did not want to sink into the same pattern as my mother and drink alone."  It's out of her mouth before she can stop it, a pronouncement of truth so real that Jamie winces, seeing the understanding blossoming in Watson's eyes.

"We're all addicts in our own way," Watson murmurs, and lets her fingers slide down to rest on Jamie's hand.  "I'll buy you a drink."

"I've had too much already."

"And I'll see you home."

"Does this mean you won't be going home with tattoos and piercings, I think I saw a hint of some very interesting ones under her clothes..."  Jamie lets herself be pulled back to the bar.  "And those can certainly be fun..."

Watson sighs. "She's like, twenty-five."

"I'm not much older."

"I'm not going to sleep with you, Jamie."

Jamie prods her in the arm, missing, trying again and hitting Watson square in the shoulder.  She smiles a little too blankly, eyes crinkling.  It feels genuine almost, when she makes her eyes do that. She’s annoyed that Watson doesn’t appear to want to play anymore, just when it was getting so fun.  Pity.  "Darling, you can't end the game before we're even playing it."

"The last thing I want is to play your games."

And it's then that Jamie tips her hand, perhaps more than she'd intended to.  "I can promise that no one will get hurt, I find your company enjoyable, that's all."

Watson's eyes are narrowed.  "Will you stop acting like you're drunk?"

 _Christ, how did she figure that out?_   Jamie scowls and glares at Watson, arms folded over her chest, demanding an explanation without articulating one.

"You looked like you wanted to break my neck when I touched you, drunk people don't attempt to murder people with their eyes," Watson adds, raising her empty glass and shaking at tattoos and piercings behind the bar.  "At least they don't in my experience," she adds, smiling prettily at the bartender when she saunters over all hips and oozing sex appeal.

"As I said, it's been a trying day," Jamie glances down at her hand. It is aching again and when Watson's drink arrives, Jamie reaches forward and collects it, taking a sip and wishing that the pain would dull.  She might have a fracture or two; she should probably go see a doctor. "A gentleman attempted to liberate a few fingers from my person."  Watson's eyebrows climb up to her hairline.  "I handled it, but this," she waves her hand, "is still rather painful."

"Let me see."

"You’re not a doctor anymore Watson."

"I'm not even much of a consulting detective anymore," Watson sighs as Jamie holds out her hand and lets the touch come again.  Sherlock is busy playing MI-6 Agent, trying to take down Le Milieu so that his brother can stop playing dead, the Iranians, after all, are not the only ones with moles  within various international spy agencies. 

Watson's hands are steady, warm, gentle. "But you probably already knew that."

"I have been monitoring the situation, yes," She shrugs with one shoulder, watching as Watson touches her fingers and feels the bones in her hand one by one.  "I think you did the right thing.  Sherlock... he can grow suffocating."

"I didn't break him before I left," Watson points out, even though they both know that she did.

"He chose to wallow in his despair, his downfall was not my doing, but I maintain that it made him better in the long run."

Watson says nothing for a long time, fingers tracing patterns on Jamie's hand that have nothing to do with determining if the bones are broken.  "Perhaps it did, but perhaps it just make him put me into the place that Irene once held in his heart.  And I don’t want to be in that place."

"And that is why I think it's good you left." Jamie meets Watson's gaze evenly, steadily. Something occurs to her that she hadn't thought of, that there might be a reason for this interaction continuing despite the fact that Watson clearly has no interest.  She posits the theory after stealing another drink of Watson's overly alcoholic cranberry juice.  "I take it that you are having trouble pulling yourself out from who he made you be."  She sighs.  "I could write him, if you'd like.  He'd listen to me."

"That's half of the problem, him still caught up in you," Watson replies, shaking her head.  "Stop stealing my drink."

"Criminal."  She laughs, pointing at herself with her free hand.  It feels good, because Watson smiles at her and its warm and genuine.  It’s easy then, to forget that they’re both caught up in each other still, and that Jamie hates herself for still loving Sherlock as much as she does.

"Your fingers aren't broken as far as I can tell, but there might be a bone bruise.  I'd see a doctor and get an x-ray to be sure."  Watson lets Jamie's hand go and sips her now half-empty drink.  She steadies herself, hands flat on the sticky bar. "The man who did that to you is dead."  It isn't a question.

Jamie ponders the best response, but she finds that she cannot foresee how Watson will react.  No matter what she says, she's staring into a void of those dark eyes and no possible reaction at all.  "He was an enforcer for a Triad I've had some dealings with," she says at length.  "And he put his hands on me."  She meets Watson's gaze evenly, her lips curling into sneer that contains all of what she feels for people who do such a thing.  "No one does that."

The reminder of all that she is and ever will be seems to strike Watson hard, and Jamie watches her struggle with the conundrum for a long time before she reaches over and drains the rest of her drink.  "Do you want to get out of here?"

She almost laughs, but Watson's expression is anything but joking.  "You said you wouldn't lower yourself to relations with me, Watson."

Watson sighs and runs a hand through her hair.  "Maybe I want to do something dangerous."

"Tattoos and piercings is still very much available," Jamie points out, gesturing to the barkeep who's ringing up an order at the till and very pointedly ignoring them, even though the bar isn't crowded enough for her to not be listening in.  "And I don't think you appreciate my kind of danger.  You certainly never have before."  She pauses, knowing beyond all doubt that this isn't about that at all.  "And sleeping with me won't bring you out of Sherlock's web, if anything it will draw you back into it."

"He doesn’t have to know."

"Please," Jamie raises a dismissive hand.  "Of course he'll know, Watson."  She sighs, hand dropping back down into her lap.

"You propositioned me first."

Jamie inclines her head, for Watson has a point. It is inevitable, really, to fight this, because they both want it. "Let's do something dangerous then."  She reaches forward, watching with half-lidded eyes as Watson's head dips down and she nods just once.  She takes Watson's hand in her own and certainly does not throw a haughty, smug look over her shoulder at tattoos and piercings as she leads Watson back towards where her driver has parked.

Her coat and briefcase are still in the back seat and there's blood splattered all over it.  She'd set it aside to be burned, but now, sliding in next to Watson, Jamie knows that she cannot burn it.  "His name was Xiao Li, and he's murdered at least 15 people that I know about." She supplies the information willingly, not knowing if it will lead Watson to get out of the car once more.

"Why did he want to hurt you?"

"I was attempting to blackmail him and he did not take kindly to my insinuations about his loyalties.” Jamie leans back, the car is moving, the driver knows the way.  She’s caught up in trying to figure out when ‘I’m not going to sleep with you’ had become ‘I want to do something dangerous.’  Maybe she hadn’t meant sex.  Maybe she’d just wanted to go kill someone.  Her married date perhaps?  Jamie could certainly arrange that, and he’d called her the most foul of names too, it would be a service to his wife to kill him by Jamie’s estimation. 

“Sherlock hates blackmailers.”

“I know.”

Watson turns to stare openly at Jamie.  “Is that why you do it?”

Jamie presses her hand to her chest and lets out an offended snort of air.  “ _Please_ , I am not so petty. My business is in information, Watson.  Sometimes information can be particularly lucrative when leveraged against the correct parties, and as over ninety percent of my assets are still frozen by your government, I am compelled to use the information I did not barter for my freedom to acquire more assets so as to gain access to my funds once more.”

“Legal bills?”

“Quite so.” There’s a moment where they don’t say anything at all, and Jamie, probably feeling the half of Watson’s drink that she did have, as well as two glasses of wine, finds herself asking why.  She’s inquisitive, and Watson is a complete mystery to her.  “Why are you doing this?”

A shrug.  “You’re hot.”

“Tattoos and piercings was also ‘hot,’ as you say,” Jamie replies, as there was no denying _that_ particular fact.  “I don’t see you going home with her.”

“As I said, she was like, twenty five.”

Jamie regards her solemnly, waiting, not saying what she wants because she wants to see what Watson will do. Her level of attractiveness to Watson is not even scratching the surface of what this is really about, and they both know it.

Watson doesn’t say anything though, no, she speaks with actions, leaning across the space between them.  She’s close, hovering with her lips just before Jamie’s.  Her breath is warm, damp on Jamie’s lips and Jamie’s tongue darts out of her mouth to wet them almost without her thinking about it.  Watson is waiting, not touching, waiting. She understands the day that Jamie’s had, it seems, and she’s willing to give her space. It is Jamie’s fingers that curl at Watson’s jawline and pull her in, and Jamie’s tongue that ends up in Watson’s mouth after a simple press of lips against her own.  She wants this, and Watson knows that she does. 

Her hand aches as Watson tugs at the collar of her shirt and curls, settling into Jamie’s lap almost without the invitation that she was so clearly waiting for earlier.  Her knees knock against the back seat and Jamie has her hands sliding up Watson’s thighs before she’s even fully settled.  This isn’t about Sherlock or about getting back at him for being the self-centered arse that they both know him to be, no this is about the underlying tension that has colored their every interaction since Jamie was forced to reveal herself to Sherlock all those many months ago.  Jamie had underestimated her, thought her weak, and Watson had used that to take down Jamie herself, a feat that should not have been possible.  Watson had seen Jamie’s darkest secret and had not judged her for her choice.  Jamie wants her, wants her desperately.

And so, apparently, does Watson.

“This is a horrible idea,” Jamie half gasps when Watson pulls away for her long enough to get a word in edgewise.

“I know.” Watson’s fingers are in her hair, tugging, pulling her head back, kissing her again and again.  Jamie wants this, she knows she shouldn’t, that she’s had a bad day and so has Watson and that this will lead to regret.  No matter how fun it is to flirt with Watson, it’s entirely different to actually commit to an act like this.  Jamie doesn’t like how it is making her feel twisted up inside, conflicted, worried for Watson because Watson should not be doing this.

It is only when the car rolls to a stop outside of one of several of Jamie’s safe houses that Watson stops and seems to gather herself.

“There was a moment,” she says, sitting back and smoothing down Jamie’s shirt.  “When I was kidnapped when I caught myself wishing that you’d come and rescue me.”

Jamie says nothing, watching, waiting.  She knows what she wants to hear Watson say, but she’s not entirely sure that Watson will come out and say them.  Knowing that Watson had thought of her, that Watson had wanted _her_ of all people to be the one to rescue her… Not Sherlock, not Sherlock’s unfortunately employed brother (for Jamie would kill him for putting Watson through all that he did if he hadn’t been quite so well connected), Watson had wanted Moriarty to come to her rescue.

Her fingers close on Watson’s hips and stay there, steady, Watson’s forehead against her own.  “I would have come,” Jamie whispers, voice a breath against Watson’s cheek.  “Had I known before it was too late.”

Watson’s thumbs are tracing circled at her temples, and the moment is oddly intimate to Jamie.  More intimate than what she’d offered initially.  It would be so easy, to twist her wrist forward or backwards, to grab hold of Watson’s arse, to slip under her dress and to feel what she’s always been so intrigued by.  She has made a study of Joan Watson, but she’s never truly thought of her in this light, coming undone.  She must see it, Jamie decides, so that she can paint it.  “Of course you knew,” Watson breathes.

A smile tugs at Jamie’s lips.  “It is my business to know most things, my dear Joan.  I had never anticipated that…” Her mouth clamps shut and her lips draw into a thin line of annoyance.  They’ve come to a stop and she doesn’t want to let Watson go.  She changes gears quickly, switching tactics, leaning forward, her lips pressing against Watson’s sealing a promise that she cannot articulate.

She would move heaven and earth to keep Watson safe, and Jamie tries to convey all of that in a kiss that feels like it lasts forever and stops almost instantly.  Watson’s fingers are tugging at her hair, her teeth worrying at Jamie’s lower lip.  This is real.  This has always been between them.  The tension and the attraction have always been there because Joan could never have Sherlock—she’d never been interested, and now Jamie knows why.

“We’ve stopped,” Watson says, tilting her head back and letting Jamie kiss the curve of her jaw, lips dragging downwards to touch the soft skin of her earlobe.  She’s wearing studs and Jamie wishes she could pull them out and suckle on that skin.  She could make Watson come unglued, breathless in Jamie’s lap. “Is this your place?”

“One of them,” she answers.  The driver is coming around to open the door and Jamie is nudging, hands still reluctant to leave Watson’s hips, Watson from her lap.  “I can’t show you all of them.”

“Understandable.”

“But I….” A breath, a pause, a kiss that Watson leans into and surrenders wholly to until there is no more air in Jamie’s lunges, Watson has stolen it all away.  “I think it good,” Jamie continues, Watson’s teeth sinking into her lower lip and making her words sound slurred, alien to her ears. “That you know where one is, should you ever find yourself in a position similar to the one you found yourself in before.”

“Because I’d be safe there?”

She makes an affirmative noise and leans over, collecting her purse and briefcase.  The jacket will stay in the car, torched along with the rest of it as soon as they get out.  It’s a shame, really, Jamie had rather liked that jacket.  Blood leaves traces, even when cleaned, and Jamie is not going back to prison any time soon.  She has no secrets left that she can barter, the only ones that she clings to are her own.  And they are not for telling.

Watson follows her without a word, noting the bloody, discarded jacket and the way that the driver stares at them both, hand inside his jacket until they’re both safely inside the building.  There is no doorman, just a complicated security system and a rattling vastness of space inside.  “I own this building,” Jamie says, keeping her tone lofty.  “The first three floors are rented out, all above board naturally – I think there’s an empty unit if you’re still looking for a new place.”

“That is a _spectacularly_ bad idea,” Watson laughs, catching Jamie’s raised eyebrow and realizing that she wasn’t seriously suggesting such a thing.  It would be a horrible idea, and Sherlock would surely find this place and Jamie would hate to have to move.  “The top floors are yours?”

“Yes.”

They’re into the lift, Watson watching with curious eyes that bore holes into the back of Jamie’s skull as Jamie keys in the correct code into the security system and inserts a key drawn from her pocket into the lock, before Watson speaks again.  “What did you not anticipate?”

Jamie falters, finger hovering over the keypad.  She remembers what she’d said, but not why she’d said it.  It doesn’t fit into the conversation now.  She presses the rest of her passcode to buy herself time, before turning to face Watson’s expectant stare. She wants to shove her hands into her pockets, they’re threatening to shake with her anger at the whole ordeal. 

Watson’s lips are bruised red, her hair mussed and her dress a little off center.  She looks like she’s just snogged in the back of the car and Jamie wants to see her undone completely and the intensity to which she feels that need is remarkable, even for Jamie who has always wanted things far too much and far too strongly. 

The lift whirrs to life, and Jamie takes a step towards Watson, and then another.  “I had not anticipated Sherlock’s brother allowing you to remain in such danger.  Sherlock or I? That would have never happened.”  She detests the reports that she’s heard, of MI-6’s Mycroft Holmes forgetting that Joan Watson is a person first and foremost.  A person who is vitally important to _everything._ He’d let the wedge between Watson and Sherlock fester into a canyon and he’d done nothing to try and prove himself worthy of Watson’s affections. 

Silence fills the lift and Jamie is reminded, yet again, that doing this is a horrible idea, or maybe it is a good one?  Watson isn’t running, she’s _talking_ about what had happened to her, which is more than Jamie’s sources have told her she’s been doing up to this point.

“Sherlock was prepared to torture a man to get the information he needed.”

“Ah, like he did to poor Sebastian. I’m not surprised, considering the circumstances.”  She smiles at Watson, all teeth and emotionless.  “I would not have stopped a torture.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you here, Watson?  You could have gone home with your married date, with the barkeep, and yet here we are, two people who are impossibly entwined with the mess of Sherlock Holmes despite our best efforts to differentiate ourselves from him.  Surely you can see where this might seem like folly.” 

Watson bites her lip, drawing more blood into it and making Jamie want to kiss her once more.  That would come later, once Watson has said her piece.  Jamie can see her swallow, watching the bob of her throat and the nervous shift that comes over her.  She’s contemplating something, Jamie can see if written all over her face, but what, Jamie has no idea.

“I want to understand what it’s like.”

Jamie reaches out, not even looking at the lift controls, and jabs the emergency stop button.  The lift groans, but slows to a stop.  She will not become this for Watson. She cannot.  What Watson wants – what _Joan_ wants – that is not something that Jamie can ever give her. 

She can see the fear in Watson’s eyes, dark pupils dilating in the dim light of the lift.  It lingers there, making Watson look like a scared animal, one that expects Jamie to commit the act that she’s threatened and hinted at so many times.  Jamie wants to be cruel to her, to strip her away to her own mental anguish and twist her words around until there is nothing left but the lie Jamie wants to tell herself out of Joan Watson’s lips.  She cannot do it, cannot take away her most worthy adversary.

“I am not a rebound for Holmes.”  A pause, Watson’s eyes are growing ever-larger.  She wants to make this clear before they go any further.  She will not play this role, no matter how much Watson wants it out of her. “Either of them.”

It is perhaps a more twisted game than she’d meant to play.  To point out the obvious, to draw attention to the fact that she is not Sherlock, that she is _better_ in every possible way, those are things that she does on occasion.  Not this time.  This time Jamie needs have that modicum of control, she must have it because Watson so clearly has none at all anymore.

Watson does something unexpected then, stepping forward and smiling sadly.  “I’m not asking you to be.”

They get along so well when there’s no Sherlock to muck things up and Watson lies to herself about who Jamie is.  In another life, Jamie would have picked Watson to destroy, because Sherlock hardly proved a challenge.  Watson, though, Watson could easily bring her downfall at any moment and Jamie likes that.  It taints their every interaction and makes the payoff all the better.  This time it is a searing kiss, Watson’s lips burning against Jamie’s like she’s attempting to convey just how much this isn’t a rebound from a relationship that was never sexual.

It may not have always been sexual between them, but Jamie does not mind it now. It fits how they’ve twisted and mutated as time has progressed.

A push of a button, mostly with her elbow as Watson has her pressed against the wall and the lift moves once more.  Watson’s hands are up her shirt and Jamie is stuck between gasping for air and pulling Watson closer.  She doesn’t like how this has escalated, because she’s supposed to be in control.  This was never mean to be Watson’s way to forget, simply Jamie flimsy excuse to not process what had happened to her when Xiao Li had almost removed her fingers. 

Watson has won the upper hand and has changed the rules of the game.

In the back of her mind, half-hazed with pleasure as it is, Jamie isn’t surprised.

The lift lets out a quiet ping with they reach the top floor and the doors open out into what functions primarily as Jamie’s studio space.  Watson’s fingers are under her bra now, and Jamie’s head is tilted back staring at the mirrored ceiling of the lift, Watson’s lips are on her neck. She’s biting hard enough to bruise and Jamie doesn’t care.  She wants the friction, the feel of Watson against her.  She wants to see Watson come apart at the seams, she wants to make her cry out in pain – in pleasure – Jamie’s mind can’t process what she wants right now, just that _this_ , here.  It is enough.

They tumble from the lift, a collection of limbs and Jamie pushing Watson’s cardigan from her shoulders.  Jamie should never have brought Watson here.  There are works of priceless art that she’s stolen to study the technique used to create them leaning up against the walls, trapped by her own work on either side.

And on the far end of the room, sitting in silent judgment, is Jamie’s homage to her downfall.  Watson pulls up, fingers fisted in the front of Jamie’s blouse, and stares at it.  “Sherlock said you didn’t create original work.”

“Irene did not.”

“There was more of you in Irene than there is in Moriarty.”

Jamie takes a step back, running a hand through her hair, pulling at a tangle and relishing the sting at her scalp when she rips out hair.  She smiles a small, private smile, and raises her hands to unbutton her shirt.  Jamie’s bedroom is down the hallway to their left and she heads down it without a word.  She’s not going to tell Joan that there is no Jamie or Irene.  That there is truly only Moriarty.  There can only ever be Moriarty, Jamie is a girl killed long ago and Irene died at Moriarty’s hand.  She refuses to be that weak ever again.

"Perhaps you're right."  She cannot confirm that to Watson.  It is not something that Watson gets to know.  None of this is.  This is Jamie's private sanctum, and to have Watson here feels like a violation.

Watson's expression becomes closed off. Jamie stands in the hallway, her shirt half unbuttoned, regarding her pensively.  It is not the sort of conversation she wants to be having.  "I prefer to copy." It is a fair thing to say, because painting is something that she loves dearly, but has always been something of a meditative exercise for her.  "There is something relaxing in studying brushstrokes and recreating them."

How Watson has the ability to suss out the truth when Jamie isn't in the mood to tell it is utterly beyond her.  That is how their game is played these days, and Jamie struggles to keep her lies straight and her truths in order.

It is hard, though, to look at Watson's face and see nothing.  She has insight, yes, she knows what it's like to lose herself in all things Sherlock Holmes.  Watson has survived where she has failed, though, and she'd stayed far longer.  It had never been a simple curiosity for her, after all.

Tipping her head forward, Watson nods her agreement.

They are here now, two people on opposite ends of a hallway, the promise of a good time and half-hidden desperation between them.  Jamie bites her lip, uncertain, just for an instant, on how to proceed.  Her fingers continue to work the buttons on her shirt and she lets it fall from her shoulders to land, forgotten, on the floor.

Turning, Jamie meets Watson's gaze over her shoulder briefly before stepping into her bedroom.

She keeps this space open, clean.  She's never taken someone back here, though she's had the opportunity before.  She is not unlike Sherlock in that regard, she has her vices and sometimes the release of endorphins is all that she needs.  Jamie's gotten very good at anonymous sex in the backs of cars and hurriedly rented hotel rooms.  This is too much, it's too intimate.

People do not get to come into her space like this.

Jamie is standing in the middle of her bedroom, her sheets are pure white and she's caught, fingers tangled in her bra strap, wondering.  Watson is in the doorway, Jamie's shirt in her hands.  She's folded it, and sets it on the dresser without a word.

Swallowing, Jamie turns, hands falling to her sides.  The room is bright, well-lit during the day.  Now, at night, it seems to glow, shining with the same inner resonance that has so captivated Jamie about Watson.

Watson is toeing off her shoes, stepping down into the floor in bare feet.  She's shorter than Jamie, but her presence seems to fill the room.  They're kissing again, Watson on her toes, rising up to press her lips against Jamie's and to say everything that cannot be said between them.  Watson is warm, pliant, she moves with Jamie, turning together and falling back onto the bed. 

Pulling on Jamie’s bra, Watsons fingers twist into the fabric of the strap.  She gets it undone with a lot less effort than Jamie’s usual lovers, and her fingers splay out over Jamie’s back.  They trace patterns there, over the constellations of her scarred skin – so marred by birthmarks that Jamie has already had to remove for they could metastasize into her lungs or her kidneys and start to kill her in a way that no bullet ever could.

Watson twists her wrists, rolling Jamie onto her back and settling onto Jamie’s lap once more.  Her dress is up around her hips and Jamie’s nostrils flare, catching sight of what’s hidden beneath it.  Watson smiles almost cruelly down at Jamie, her fingers hooking around the front of Jamie’s bra and pulling it off of her.  Her thighs press warm heat into Jamie’s hips, and Jamie is almost laughing when Watson’s head dips down.  Her lips are harsh against the skin at the curve of Jamie’s jaw; one palm presses into her breast, squeezing, pulling, lingering until Jamie’s mouth falls open and the kisses that slide over Jamie’s jaw are tainted with Watson’s smile.

“I’ve wanted this for a long time,” Watson’s words are slurred, her teeth replaced by tongue and lips and god – if Jamie had ever been in doubt that this was what she wanted, what Watson is doing with her lips against the soft skin behind Jamie’s ear is enough to drive all thought from her mind.  Watson has been with a woman before, that much is obvious, and she knows what she’s doing.

Jamie knows that she will see Watson undone, but Watson has the upper hand now.  She’s moving quickly and Jamie can feel the heat pooling at the pit of her stomach.  Watson’s lips are closed over Jamie’s breast, sucking on her nipple, lingering until it is a hard point, her teeth biting down and a positively wicked smile blossoming at her lips at Jamie’s small sound of discomfort.

Letting her head fall back into the bed, an undignified groan escapes Jamie’s lips and she hates that she’s let herself make the noises that she usually finds won wonderful to extract from her lovers.  Watson has this out of her, and Watson will have more out of her by the time this night is through. 

Jamie’s fingers tangle in Watson’s hair and clutch her to her breast.  Their hips knock together and the friction is enough to make to make Jamie’s hips cant forward, wanting more of the friction, more of the feeing of Watson against her.  Watson’s teeth bite down then, and the sensation of pain across her breast, soothed by gentle tongue and feather-light kisses pulls another little moan from Jamie’s lips.  This feels good, and she wants more.  She wants Watson’s dress off, she wants Watson underneath her.  She wants and she wants and she wants.

Growing up, they always told her that she wanted too much, that she could never have all that she wanted.  She’d showed them, and today her empire is vast.  Vast and brought to its knees by one woman.  This woman.  This woman that Jamie wants desperately.

Watson is shifting, pulling away from Jamie’s breast and tugging at Jamie’s pants.  She makes an annoyed sound at the back of her throat.

It takes a moment for Jamie to realize why they’re proving difficult.  “Side zipper,” she groans out, one arm flung over her eyes.  There’s no fly on these pants, thank you.  They are far too nice for that.

“Ah.”  Watson’s head dips down to press an opened-mouth kiss to Jamie’s navel. She’s found the sipper and the clasp and is tugging down Jamie’s pants and underwear, tossing them aside as though they’re nothing.   

Her lips and fingers hover, not touching but Jamie can feel Watson’s breath on her and it makes her want to squirm, to twist away from the feeling.  Watson must know this, because she’s smiling, and leaning forward, she blows gently. 

Arm still flung over her eyes, Jamie groans.  “Do it.”

“Mn?”

“Don’t beat around the bush, Joan.”

There’s a beat, and then Watson throws back her head, laughing so hard that Jamie thinks she might have actually snorted.  She frowns, squinting up at Watson, until her mind processes what she’s said and the groan that escapes her lips this time is one of annoyance and embarrassment.  She cannot believe herself. “You know what I mean.”

“A pun. Really?”

“It was entirely unintentional.”

“I’m sure.” 

Sex has never been like this for Jamie – with laughter and smile and easy kisses.  Watson must know this, because she’s making a point of dragging out the kiss that she places on Jamie’s lips, a smile still evident in her eyes.  It is a lazy kiss, gentle, and Jamie’s hips rock up into the motion of it easily. 

Watson knows the body.  She knows how to make Jamie moan with a twist of tongue over skin with the ease of a practiced lover and some small, petty art of Jamie wants to shove all of this into Sherlock’s face.  She’s finding that she’s proud of the fact that she’s had Watson when he’s never wanted her. 

It is easy to lose herself in Watson’s touch.  Watson’s lips are on her, circling sucking, a finger, then two slipping inside of her.  She’s wet, Jamie knows, almost embarrassingly so.  It has been a while since she’s had sex with anyone.  Agent Matoo had, tragically, not been interested and it was rather hard to masturbate with a 24-hour guard. 

Rocking against her, hips pressing the palm of her hand and making it grind against Jamie’s center; Watson presses a kiss to Jamie’s neck.  She’s rocking up against Watson, and Watson into her.  With each press of Watson’s hand against and into her, Jamie feels wilder. She’s caught in the energy of the moment, of the feeling of all that this could be and then some. 

She comes apart biting into Watson’s shoulder, nails raking bloody lines down Watson’s back.

Watson lingers, sucking, biting at her thighs.  She presses warm kisses to the skin there before she bows her head and claps her lips over Jamie’s clit.  Watson stays there until Jamie cannot stand the feeling anymore and cries out, her toes curling and her fingers tugging on Watson’s hair. 

“Enough, enough,” Jamie mumbles, pulling Watson up and kissing her release from Watson’s chin. 

The kisses turn languid, open-mouthed and lazy.  Jamie’s hand settles in between Watson’s leg, pushing aside her knickers and finding just how much Watson wants her with a little thrill of energy that shoots down her spine.  She dips her fingers inside and Watson lets out this breathy little sound that makes Jamie feel weak, her heart fluttering at the mere suggestion of it.

What follows is a dance that Jamie knows well, but she wants to make an impression.  She rolls them over and she kisses Watson with all the emotions that she feels she cannot express.  The desperate touches that say that she’s glad Watson is alive, the worried little nips that try to convey just how much Jamie had wanted to be the one who’d saved her.  The promise with every pass of her tongue over Watson’s collarbone that she would never let something like what Mycroft Holmes had done ever happen to Watson again.

 _You feel too much._ Jamie had been told once, _you see too much and you know too much.  You are entirely too much._

She feels things so intensely because she is better than everyone else, and to push her fingers into Watson and dip her lips to kiss away this arousal into release is Jamie proving it. She wants to ruin Watson for all of her silly married men and the potential dates with women who possess far too many tattoos and piercings.  She wants to ruin Watson for Sherlock and for his idiot brother who thinks himself a superspy.  She wants to have Watson all to herself because it is only then, Jamie is certain, that she will be able to understand how Watson was able to best her.

And Watson falling apart at her touch is enough to make Jamie want to do this over and over again.  Watson is beautiful in her release, her mouth open and lipstick smeared across her cheek.  Her fingers are tangled in Jamie’s hair and as she falls apart Jamie feels a vindictive smile drift across her face.  She’s had Watson now, and it’s something that Sherlock cannot say he’s done.

They fall together, sweaty and still half-dressed on Watson’s part. Jamie curls, twisting into Watson and letting her head rest on Watson’s shoulder.  They drift then, eyes half-closed and heartbeats stilling, until Jamie sees nothing but the blankness of sleep and the warm smell of Watson all around her.

**

"Tell me something."

"Mn?"

"Was this dangerous enough for you?" Jamie is on her elbows; hair mussed and staring at Watson as she lays, splayed out on Jamie's pillow.  Her lipstick is all but gone now, a smudge on her cheek the only remnant of the pretty red shade that reminds Jamie of blood and sex and sin.  She raises a hand to wipe it away, trying to ignore how Watson's head tilts into her touch.  This could become something and they both know it.

Watson laughs, soft, gentle, and Jamie's thumb rubs away the last of her lipstick from her cheek.  "It could be."  There is a bitter tone in her voice and Jamie hates that she's done nothing to erase it.  "It could also have been a horrible mistake."  She shrugs, meeting Jamie's eyes evenly.  "Only time can tell that."

"Best make a lasting impression then," Jamie says, mostly to herself.  She leans in, fingers skating along Watson's jaw and kisses her lazily, lingering when she knew she should not.  It feels so good, and Watson curling and arching into her is enough to tell Jamie all that she ever wanted to know.  This had not been a mistake, perhaps, and maybe it wouldn't happen again, but Watson was willing to make sure that it festered like a bullet wound at the back of Jamie's mind until it was all that she could think of.

Cursing her defeat, Jamie lets Watson push her down onto the bed to start their dance anew.  Answers, retribution, all that would come later.  For now she would drown in the sensation of whatever it was that existed between them.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [[x](http://anamatics.tumblr.com/post/85691787677/volando-voy-all-i-see-i-moriarty-drunk-and)], but somehow got a lot more complex. Title from 'Holland' By Cold Specks.


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